


(de-dick-ated to) dynamic disruption

by strangeparties



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: And also looking for quality ass, Corporate Heir Eliott, Corporate au (again), Dirty Jokes, Dirty Talk, Eliott is his client, Eliott is just looking for love, Emails, Grindr, Hookups that turn into more, Lola and Lucas have lgbtq solidarity for once, Lucas is a publicist, M/M, Or more like a PR agency AU, Sexually Confident but Emotionally Stunted Lucas, Shameless Smut, Social Media, The other Isaks also make sporadic appearances, Twitter, lots of puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeparties/pseuds/strangeparties
Summary: h0e me? naw@bitchplsitslucas#tfw u go to work w/ yr back blown out only to discHOEver (read: a hoe-y discovery) ur now on payroll of said back-blower doing actual work like gettin on yr knees groping for paperclips instead of the other p-wordor: Lucas endeavours to be a good press agent/fairy god-dude to Eliott, reluctant corporate heir & Lucas’s one-time only, repeatable-upon-pain-of-death grindr hookup.
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 20
Kudos: 194





	(de-dick-ated to) dynamic disruption

**Author's Note:**

> please (1) turn on creator skin [otherwise so many things will look so whack]; (2) please mind the tags. this will have explicit sex right from the get-go. and please ignore the timestamps of the chats and tweets and social media what-have-you’s that unsuspend your disbelief - you know the drill.

  


  


“Did you see the news on Ramsden?” Lola begins, tapping her ballpoint on the worn spiral notebook sprawled at the edge of her laptop’s touchpad.

Lucas reins in the urge to groan. Lola plus tapping on a notebook plus spinning away like a demented human merry-go-round at her chair? Not a great sign.

Ever since Lucas chewed her out for _lack of focus_ , Lola had made it a point to read up on the latest happenings in their area of Communications expertise. She’s since seen it fit to regale Lucas every chance she could of the sheer amount of knowledge she’s accumulated. Nevermind if it isn’t their client or it’s entirely irrelevant to their current workload.

“Here’s a thought. Should M&A stand for Mergers and Acquisitions, or—let’s be honest—Mammaries and Ass?”

Why Lucas thought it would ever make sense to entrust his once-intern and now Account Executive Lola with research for corporate messaging was beyond him. It’s a rather risky portfolio to assign to a rookie who’d only been under him for less than a year.

“I’m just saying,” she continues with a little smirk, sitting back into her ergonomic office chair with the air of a great philosopher.

The back of her chair bumps into Lucas’s, sending it careening into the edge of his desk. His eye twitches. Why did they have to share cubicle space again? Granted, the space could comfortably hold two six-footers lying down on both desks and still have some legroom (do not ask Lucas how he came up with this estimate).

Oh, yeah. She was _his_ direct report. Damnit. Not for the first time, he wishes his office had one of those seasonal trades like in basketball or some such sport Lucas never cared for. Maybe then Robbe and Isak would stop fucking laughing in his face whenever he brought up that he’s training the literal spawn of Satan.

“Weaving that development into the fabric of the Ramsden company narrative would make for a great story pitch. Especially since their board apparently loves bribing errant about-to-whistleblow execs with ten-euro hookers on yachts.”

He has to grudgingly admit that even as an intern under his (reluctant) tutelage, Lola had proven to be resourceful, whip-smart, and insightful, if a little defiant and out-of-the-box. A little like Lucas himself.

Okay, maybe more than a little.

(He must’ve been coerced into hiring Lola upon pain of castration. Honestly, he can’t recall. Maybe it was Daphne threatening him with bodily harm. Or maybe it was after that one time when he’d developed a wicked hangover after a long night of drinking after Daphne and Basile’s engagement party.

Once Daphne had gotten him alone [i.e. cornered him on the way to get his 4th drink] Daphne had shown her Lola’s sparse Linkedin page. Even through the fog of tipsiness, it immediately stands out because there’s not a whole lot of points of interest. It’s unlike other resumes piled on his desk with the potential intern’s five million clubs signed up for, useless honor societies, and miscellaneous irrelevant awards [a ‘born to be at the world stage’ award and a ‘most likely to be on a reality show’ award being the most egregious].

In the interest of making an impatient beeline for the bar, he says yes to whatever it is Daphne wants.

Yeah, he was dumb. Which 20-something professional wasn’t? He’d drank like he was still 18 when, in reality, the moment he’d hit 25, his body decided to check out. Begin the slow and steady downward slope straight to the urn. All the things he’d previously thought himself impervious to at 21—tortuous hangovers, joint creaks when he so much as flicked his wrist wrong on his keyboard, weird back pains—had decided to come for him with a vengeance.

That morning, he’d awoken feeling like his soul had ripped from his body. As said body couldn’t escape the confines of the mortal plane, it punished him with the grand dame of all migraines. To top off his morning-of-shame, he’s in Daphne and Basile’s apartment, traces of drool left on their custom throw pillows.

Just as he panics about Daphne throwing a fit for ruining her carefully curated interiors, Daphne’s face hovers above him, haloed in morning sunshine as she offers him an aspirin and a hug.

Most alarming is the _Thank you thank you thank you for agreeing to hire Lola last night, I swear she won’t disappoint you_ that spills from her lips a mile a minute.)

“Here’s a thought,” Lucas counters, plunking his messenger bag down on his desk. “How about you stop believing every two-bit piece of corporate gossip on _Euro Biz Buzz_ and start drafting the bullets I asked you to?”

“Done. Check your email.” Lola already sounds bored, turning back to her laptop. Probably deleting all the tardiness memos from HR again.

Between the two of them, only Lucas is allowed to come in whenever he wanted—perks of the position and all. But true to form, it’s his AE who abused the privilege. The fact that Lola’s already at her desk when Lucas comes in is itself some kind of a minor miracle.

He quirks a questioning brow in her direction. “You put the media strategy like I told you to?”

Lola’s back is to him but he can feel her rolling her eyes. “Yeah. No one in this shithole understands your whiteboard hieroglyphics better than me. It’s already there.” Lola begins reciting it all as if from a laundry-list. “Inform and educate the media on infant and child nutrition issues through column feeds and features; engage leading personalities to foment higher discussion of policy matters; generate positive publicity for coalition activities—“

Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, okay. Fuck, it’s too early for this.”

Lola shrugs, deeming Lucas worthy of her face once more as she turns to him. “You asked for it. And anyway, since this is already a one and done deal, there’s pretty much nothing more to do, right?”

“Yeah, well. They only wanted a one-time consultancy on strategy.” He hums distractedly as he boots up his laptop. “They contracted Ballou for execution. Beats me why.”

“Maybe it’s because Valtersen keeps raising the service fees,” Lola points out matter-of-factly, tone fizzling into the same shade of bored.

Lucas bites the meat of his cheek to suppress the oncoming snort. Lola isn’t exactly wrong, but Isak isn’t either. Much as it pains him to agree with yet another blond spawn of Satan, 21h’s accomplishments justify the price scale.

They were a small team of six junior managers just four years ago—the OG6, they called themselves. Save for Isak who’d been handpicked by their Oslo-based founder Julie Andem, they’d each been hired and trained by Julie’s deputy directors-at-large and had come into the company within weeks of Isak’s onboarding. They all underwent training in Oslo for around six months before becoming regularized, and Lucas was permanently assigned to Paris just as he was first promised in his hiring package.

Nowadays, they’re all scattered across the different 21h branches. Sometimes they gather in Oslo or Paris or Berlin, depending on the manpower needed for an account. But they make sure to meet up in person at least every three or so months, if time permits.

(In the early, wet-behind-the-ears rookie days, It’s Marti who comes up with OG6 on the solemn principle of simplest usually being the best.

Lucas wanted something that sounded “cool” like _Six Slayer Strike_ or _Six Stealth Force_. In hindsight, it’s not his best naming effort.

But really, he just wanted to one-up Isak. The latter’s claim to fame at the time was being, quote, _the OG of all OGs_ , and thus was more into something that celebrated, well, himself. This included gems such as _Isak and Friends_ or _Isak and The Sunshine Band_ —his stupid attempt at irony, given that exactly zero of them were beacons of sunshine. Except for Robbe, maybe, and that was just under a very specific set of circumstances.

Matteo had just been plainly unhelpful, suggesting things he found either off a Japanese mecha-name generator or a pizza menu, like _Super Wonder Supreme Mega Team_ or _Mighty Power Squadron Six Fighting Rangers_.

“This bitch has gotta be trolling,” Lucas recalled muttering under his breath the moment Matteo decided to freestyle with language.

VDH voted for Matteo’s word salad in kinship with his fellow pothead. Robbe voted for Marti’s idea because it sounded the least offensive to outsiders—and was also the shortest to type. This single argument prompted Matteo to abandon the 72472 other pizza-mecha hybrid names sloshing about his cranium pea soup for Marti’s.

Hey, at the end of the day it was the easiest to remember. Matteo is nothing if not a lover of efficient acronyms.)

The agency had now ballooned to around twenty on the strength of the original managers’ accounts alone. Lucas himself had brought into the fold around a quarter of their total accounts in the past two quarters, around half being repeat clients. To say they merited the increase is kind of a gross understatement.

“You may be right, but you won’t catch me saying that to Isak,” he says, leaning back and opening his office gmail. “I don’t see your email? It should be at the top.”

“Check again. Prolly got buried under HR memos. Those dicks in HR send this shit like they’re trying to reach a daily quota,” Lola huffs, making a face.

Lucas scans the screen quickly. Lola’s email is buried underneath the usual litany of memos from Finance and Accounting about Expense Reports, sprinkled with a passive-aggressive google calendar reminder from VDH—unsubtly labelled LUCAS L’S TWENTY-SEXXXTH BIRTHDAY PARTYYY—to treat the OG6 to drinks since his birthday was coming up in three weeks. They’re all due to meet in Paris for a conference two days before and—he squints.

He does a double-take. An email from Julie herself? Usually he got his high-level marching orders from David. Isak, promoted to Managing Director three months ago, doled out the more mundane tasks. It’s addressed to him and the other four senior managers.

It doesn’t say much, just a vaguely terse instruction: _Please read and familiarize yourselves with the situation ASAP; Isak has already been briefed. Kindly await next email. Thanks, JA._

Lucas lifts a curious eyebrow, opening the attached article.

**DMRYG COO arrested on suspicions of illegal arms dealing**

PARIS, FRANCE (Agence France Presse)—The Chief Operations Officer of diversified conglomerate DMRY Group (DMRYG) has been arrested on charges of illegally brokering the sale of military-grade arms, money laundering and conspiracy.

Thomas Demaury, 58, was arrested Sunday at his home in Marseille by agents with the Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure (DGSI). He remains in custody but is expected to post bail.

Marseille Prosecutor Francois Baffier discloses that based on evidence gathered thus far in the criminal investigation, there are grounds to believe that Demaury tried to broker an illegal arms deal in 2019 and 2020 with the Nigerian and Libyan governments. Documents show Demaury, through cohorts at DMRYG, was trying to sell high-explosive bombs, rockets, military-grade firearms, and aircraft-mounted cannons from Eastern Europe and South Africa.

Despite lack of permission from the State, Demaury is accused of pursuing the transaction and working with Societe D’Equipments Internationaux (SEI), an arms brokering company acting on behalf of Libya, for the purchase of the weapons and explosives.

“Illegal arms brokering represents a threat, not only to French national security, but to the security of the international community,” said Baffier.

Demaury’s attorney Philippe Druon of Hogan Lovells (Paris) LLP maintains that his client is not a licensed arms dealer and has done nothing wrong.

“We are prepared to fight to the very end,” said Druon when reached for comment.

In a news release (see: _DMRYG scrambles for executive leadership shift_ ) hours before the arrest, DMRYG announced that they were heeding the call of the French government for leadership change.

DMRYG confirmed that an emergency board meeting was planned for Friday, but a spokesman did not respond to questions about its agenda or Demaury’s replacement.

The board will consider the proposed appointment of DMRYG Deputy AVP for Food and Wineries Eliott Demaury, 27, as interim COO, three sources said.

Eliott Demaury, the suspect’s nephew and DMRYG Chairman and CEO Edouard Demaury’s only son, has long been known in business circles as a bright prospect to take the helm once Chairman Demaury retires in the next five years.

The French government, which has a 14-percent stake in DMRYG and two board seats, is reportedly backing Eliott Demaury for the role, with reservations.

RELATED NEWS:

_ Elusive DMRYG heir makes makes rare public appearance at Atelier des Lumières  _

_ Shareholders say newly appointed DMRYG Wineries AVP too young, too reckless _

_ DMRYG Chairman lobbies for only son in rousing Chambres de Commerce et d’Industrie speech _

Sensing his interest, Lola rounds on him like a shark smelling blood. “What’s got you all—” Lola gestures vaguely at his face. “That?”

“Potential new account,” Lucas informs her, feeling a swell of excitement.

Finally, some real action. Not that his last account was boring, but did anyone really need more proof that breast milk was best for nursing babies? He’d also been forced to examine diagrams and photos of women’s breasts for more than two minutes, which must be some kind of a capital punishment from the gay gods for failing to keep a relationship going for more than six months in his entire 25 years of living.

“Ah,” Lola says, less enthused. “When’s the pitch?”

“Doesn’t say yet. Have to wait for Isak’s email.”

“You’re probably gonna be waiting a while.” Lola procures a can of iced black coffee from somewhere below her desk. Her blood stream has to be 80% espresso at this point. “Didn’t Marti say on Slack that he was on some kinda belated honeymoon weekend with that indie director husband of his?”

Lucas waves her off, mentally listing the search terms he’d be googling later to get up to speed with the situation over at DMRYG. “It’s been three days. He should be back by now. Besides, that guy never misses an assignment from Julie.”

Lola looks at him over the top of her can with something resembling pity. Lucas ignores it.

“Come _on_ , dude. If your relationships didn’t only last for, what—“ Lola smirks. “A twenty-minute dinner and a five-minute blowjob—“

Lucas glares at both Lola and the potted plant behind her, a desk-warming gift from Daphne. To his dismay, only the plant withers a little.

“—You wouldn’t believe anyone would be happy with just a three-day honeymoon.”

“Not everyone can find a long-term significant other at the grocer,” Lucas retorts icily, inwardly reeling at the burn.

Lola shrugs, unaffected. “At least I didn’t find one at the Futur:st Valley bathroom queue.”

Lucas cringes. “For the record, telling you that is probably one of my life’s biggest regrets.”

At the time, he was _sad_ and _vulnerable_ , his internal self-esteem balloon filled to bursting with self-loathing. His previous boyfriend had broken up with him over breakfast—breakfast!—because he was too busy and too hyper-focused on things that didn’t matter like his career and financial liquidity, apparently. Granted, said boyfriend, who he’d been dating for around four months, wasn’t the best he’d ever had so far in bed. Not even close. He snored like a chainsaw in his sleep. He chewed with his mouth open. But he was sweet, like a dumb puppy. Tried his best to be there for Lucas. Held him when he needed it after a rough visit to his mom. Not the best, not the worst. He was alright.

He supposed he ought to understand his exes on some level. He himself is terrible at breakups. Instead of walking up to the front entrance and buying a ticket, he usually tries to sneak rejection into the side door. In university, he’d even friended a guy on Facebook just so he could send him a breakup message. It’s taken a bit of time, but karma’s finally caught up to him.

So when they broke up on a Monday morning, he wasn’t as cool with it as he wanted to be. No one was in their area except Lola, the others scattered across meetings in the city. After a barrage of snappy remarks and a moment of glaring at the box of staple wires like he was about to murder it, Lola acutely deduced that he was devastated-bitchy and not his usual normal-bitchy.

He ended up spilling his guts to his damn intern, who suggested, among others: keying the guy’s car, taking one of his fingers, or lacing the guy’s smoothie with arsenic. Only one of those things didn’t result in Lucas having to move continents. But all of it just made Lucas want to sob into his desk. This is what all his relationships have officially come to: sarcasm, bitterness, and empty threats.

Maybe some of his exes _do_ have a point. Their point being that after years in the game, he no longer sees individuals and their individual capacities for love and affection, but networks, one long line of relationships measured by utility. Great for earning his keep. Not great for people he’d like to fuck and maybe make breakfast for in the long-term.

“Some things you only appreciate in hindsight,” Lola says cryptically, spinning back to her laptop. “You should get on one of those dating apps. There are plenty of success stories. That’s what they say on twitter, anyway.”

“One: I’m already on it. Lots of weirdos and creeps. Too many guys on the app honestly look like… suspects on a true crime documentary that don’t get convicted but you just _know_ they had something to do with the disappearance.”

“So you’re actually looking to get murdered, then,” Lola deadpans. “I know we’re not the best of friends, but I actually prefer seeing you alive and carrying on with your bland ass taste in guys.”

“Bland where? I’ve been seasoned by time and experience.”

Lola ducks her head, stifling a laugh-snort. “Are you sure it’s time and experience and not bucketfuls of co—“

“ _Anyway_ , as I was saying—credit where credit is due; it’s good for one-night stands if you manage your expectations. And I mean _really_ manage it. Two: Success stories?” Lucas makes derisive air-quotes around the words like it’s a curse. “Really? You’ve fallen for their marketing—haven’t I taught you better than that?”

“The only thing you’ve taught me is how to freeze rows on Excel spreadsheets.” Lola shows exactly how much he cares about Lucas’s opinion by studying her nails. “And writing a half-decent press release, I guess.”

A suitable comeback sits at the tip of Lucas’s tongue, but his phone buzzes before he can throw it out there. He swipes at the screen and almost falls over at the message.

“Shit!” he exclaims, standing up and pushing the back of his chair into Lola’s with a dull thud. “I have to go. I’m supposed to do editor rounds at _Paris News_ and _Le Parisien_. Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He shuts his laptop with loud thump and hurriedly stuffs some papers into his bag. He kicks his foot out below to feel for a spare media giveaway and curses again when his foot only finds thin air.

How he could have been so careless? Lola definitely has a point now. Maybe he is just a bit off his game lately. This thing should’ve been in his calendar instead of being stuffed into his notes app. Instead of, oh, right smack in the middle of his grocery list and how many push-up reps he should do every week after he’d been forced to evolve after his nth break-up.

“It’s with me,” Lola says calmly with uncanny perceptiveness. She reaches below her desk and yet again, miraculously procures a small gift basket filled with pens, notebooks, and a couple of balled-up shirts. “You asked me last week to call the suppliers for another run of these, right? I figured you’d want to have your desk free so I just put them under mine.”

Lucas could almost cry. He grabs the gift basket and cradles it in his arms like a newborn, then slings his messenger bag onto his shoulder. “I’d kiss you right now if we weren’t so glaringly incompatible,” he offers with a grateful grin. “And if you weren’t my direct report. And if you weren’t such a little asshole ninety-five percent of the time.”

Lola’s face registers a deep grimace of disgust that’s deeply satisfying to Lucas. It’s almost as good as a verbal comeback. “You coulda stopped at the first reason but go off, I guess.”

.

His editor rounds last all of three hours. They’re always happy to see him, not only because he brings them exclusive scoops or features or ad spend from clients, but because Lucas could be pretty fucking charming when he wants to be.

He’s free to go work from home afterwards, texting Lola a quick reminder to close their area up. Speaking of Lola, she turns out to be right. He _does_ end up getting Isak’s email close to 17h, around the time when offices are already closing up shop.

From: ivaltersen@twentyone.com

Subject: Confidential: Project D Brief

To: mrametta@twentyone.com, llallemant@twentyone.com, mflorenzi@twentyone.com, lvanderheijden@twentyone.com, rizjermans@twentyone.com

Team:

Sorry for the short notice. You all know how it is with these sudden corporate leadership 360’s.

Anyway, gist is: DMRYG Board Meeting is tomorrow at 15h. JA has an in with Chairman Demaury (CD) so there’s still a bid, but the account is as good as ours. The Demaury heir (ED) is a shoo-in for the COO position. But as you can tell from a quick google deep dive, there’s a few issues with his appointment.

Some key points from JA on ED:

\- “Elusive” meaning he’s not media-savvy or press trained. Doesn’t hobnob, doesn’t like the limelight. Almost zero photos of him online. Family values privacy so his search terms are scrubbed.  
\- Shareholder opinion is mixed on issue of age and lack of necessary experience. He comes from the wineries part of the business which isn’t as robust relative to the group’s other core interests (real estate, telecom, energy, industrial tech, etc). We need to establish credibility quick within the business community. - There’s unverified talk that ED is a fan of illegal urbex and graffiti, which is an insta-reputational problem. To be clarified when NDA terms are final.  
\- Narrative control is paramount. Creation of a public social media account for ED was floated to CD - this is a go. Their team will handle this for now but it’ll be ceded to us once contract is ok-ed.

All that said, am attaching Project D briefing for team’s perusal per our last con call. Materials needed from everyone are there.

Please send to me/LL your materials tonight or early Friday at the latest. LL will attend the client meeting tomorrow 10:30h.

Thanks guys!  
IVN

p.s. See you guys in 3 weeks! Even says hi! :)

From: llallemant@twentyone.com

Re: Subject: Confidential: Project D Brief

To: ivaltersen@twentyone.com, mrametta@twentyone.com, mflorenzi@twentyone.com, lvanderheijden@twentyone.com, rizjermans@twentyone.com

IVN,

Copy that.

VDH (and the rest of you I guess),

Couldn’t you move the birthday reminders to, idk, the group whatsapp?? ??? ???? You think I don't know my own damn birthday ??? 

Anyway, see you all in 3 weeks.

Best,  
LL

From: lvanderheijden@twentyone.com

Re: Re: Subject: Confidential: Project D Brief

To: llallemant@twentyone.com, ivaltersen@twentyone.com, mrametta@twentyone.com, mflorenzi@twentyone.com, rizjermans@twentyone.com

Lucas,

No ❤️

Cheers!  
Lucas

Time passes like sand in a bottle when you’re working. Late afternoon slips into early evening. Lucas is done with his talking points and deck before 21h, a personal record.

He glances down at his phone with nary a ping or a buzz. No messages except from Robbe kindly telling him he’d already sent his end of the pitch and wishing him _Good luck man! You’re gonna kill it!_.

Lucas sighs, lying back on the couch and staring up at the ceiling in silent reflection. What’s with this ennui all of a sudden? Maybe he’d let Lola (and Yann, Arthur, Basile, and pretty much everyone and their grandmothers who wanted to set him up with the next Jacques or Henry) burrow into his head far too deeply for his liking.

Thing is, Lucas finds no problem in representing visible personalities—keeping them in the public eye in times of triumph, out of it in times of shame, and, in general, providing advice, comfort, and refuge as the moment demands. It’s his natural empathy and interest in people’s stories, their ups, downs, and in-betweens, that keep him on his toes and good at his job.

Representing _himself_ in his own time of personal crisis—the furious blowup, the domestic implosion, the humiliating defeat knowing that someone or something else held your boyfriend’s time and attention far better than you ever could is a different story altogether.

He could make flower arrangements out of weeds for everyone else, placing the most attractive blooms in front of the wilted shrubs. But for him, no blossoms could hide the shit that was front and center in his life. The irony isn’t lost on him.

He wrinkles his nose, setting his laptop down beside him and thumbing through his phone. He finds himself hovering through his settings.

  


Ugh. Fine. Whatever. It’s not like he can call Yann or the others out on a Thursday night. They all rarely got together during weekdays nowadays, what with work and commitments and life in general getting in the way. Unsurprisingly, newly engaged Basile has the _least_ free time among all of them. He’s neck-deep in both his work as an engineer and wedding preparations, determined to support Daphne mentally, emotionally, and financially.

He ignores the little voice in his head saying he could've had that, too. Could've had the all-strings-attached yet fuss-free relationship Daphne and Bas enjoyed. If only he just shut up and did what his exes wanted. Paid more attention, been more present, lived in the moment. Not in a constant bubble of anxiety and _will he be the one who stays or goes._ Then have the audacity to act surprised when he's left high and dry, knowing he had it coming all along. 

He bites his lip and opens the app, going straight to his profile, untouched for around three months.

  


Opening his chats, he sees approximately 183 unread messages from guys in the area. Some even going as far as Australia. Likely a glitch on the app’s part, but Lucas couldn’t help but smirk. Yep, if _other_ more desirable parts aren’t getting stroked tonight, at least his ego will.

He’d almost sworn off this shit after his last break-up, but unsurprisingly, grindr is pretty much the crack cocaine of gay dating apps. He finds himself coming back to an unfiltered GPS-based parade of unsolicited dick pics flopping about at his screen, every shape, size, colour, and age represented within its Cartesian geo-limits. Whenever he goes back to the app it always feels like an online Pride parade, without the bureaucratic red tape and the long speeches.

He opens the first three options, reading through some and replying to some truly horrendous ones along the way. If nothing else, at least it’s quality entertainment and a chance to roast some (figurative) dicks.

  


  


  


Some of these guys has Lucas’s eyeballs nearly rolling out his head. Yeah, he thinks, just because we're the same species doesn’t mean we have any business being horny for each other.

After sending a scathing reply to a masc4masc guy demanding ass shots—and who is this guy to demand when he looks like a used condom filled with walnuts—a new message pops up in his inbox. He means to slide his finger up to leave it for later but accidentally clicks the profile open instead.

  


The profile name catches his eye instantly. _Pan and Tired_. Huh. Not too many pan guys in the area. At least not a lot he’s seen traipsing around the app in search of an ass to rim or a dick to suck on for a few hours.

Curiosity sufficiently piqued, he goes to the guys profile and _holy shit_ , the guy is beyond gorgeous. He looks like he should be up on a poster on some teenage girl’s bedroom wall, not on a fucking hook-up app. No fucking way is this guy _not_ a catfisher.

He opens the chat again, half-revolted and half-giddy at the thought that this guy may or may not be using some random underwear model’s stock photos as his display picture. Even his facts and figures read like a supermodel’s vital statistics.

 _Pan and Tired_ is even the exact height cap Lucas has for his ideal guy. Like he’d never date a guy with over a foot height difference. It tends to make him jumpy, like a Pomeranian meeting a Great Dane.

  
  


  


Lucas actually laughs. Despite all odds in favor of this guy possibly being out to disembowel him and stuff his body with cotton, there's something about the way he chats that charms Lucas.

Eh. He'll take his chances. He'll just send a text to Yann if he ends up hooking for the night: _If you don't hear from me within 48 hours, it was grindr user pan and tired. In case of my untimely demise, I'm leaving you with my plants, books, and university hoodies. To Arthur I leave my meagre videogame collection. To Basile I leave my piano, just in case he wants to up his romance game._

He fires a message back.

The guy sends a photo and it's—

Lucas barks out an incredulous laugh. This guy must really be fucking with him. 

It's the selfie to end all selfies. The first thing he notices are his eyes. Goddamn, his eyes are otherworldly, a smouldering blue-grey that has Lucas's jaw dropping to the floor. The collar of his crisp black linen shirt is unbuttoned, exposing his clavicles and the dip of his chest. It looks like something Armani would post in a guerilla marketing campaign, or an instagram influencer in a non-disclosed paid partnership. Lucas knows the drill with these types. And yet, the guy doesn't really feel like he's selling the clothes, but rather he's selling _presence_. The type that even when locked up in a box is larger than life, all compact muscle and bottled desire.

Lucas wonders what he would feel like pressed up against him. 

He shakes his head. _Get it together_. Is this even him at all? For real?

  


The guy sends a selfie of himself against a bevy of hotel-grade pillows. He holds a torn piece of hotel paper with the logo of _Four Seasons Paris_ up to his lips. Those eyes are unmistakeable.

The note reads: _Hi fuck it (or me), please forgive the bad pick-up. Wanna hang? I'm at the Royal Suite, Four Seasons_ in a hastily written scrawl.

Shit.

Lucas is maybe about to die. Not only this guy hot, but he's hosting a hook-up at the fucking Four Seasons. Lucas is lucky if he gets to go to a guy's 2ème condo. But this is next-level. Is this guy some low-key prince of a far-flung Eastern European country that for some reason no one knows about? 

  


He confirms he'll be there in around 30 minutes. 

Against his better judgment (after all, he might be going out to get buried in an unmarked plot of land somewhere, who knows), Lucas is abuzz with excitement—the most he’s felt in some time that’s _not_ related to a product launch or a press conference. He dashes to his room and gets out his best button-down shirt and jeans, the ones that emphasize his slim waist, shapely thighs, and taut ass. 

He's about to run out the door like he's on fire when he remembers. Condoms and lube! He dashes back inside to stuff a few Manix packets into his backpocket and a small a tube of lube he keeps around for last-minute travels and emergencies. It's likely the guy has some lying around his place if he's on grindr, but you can never be too careful. 

Oh, it’s on.

**Author's Note:**

> your sex tropes-as-flimsy-fic-plots girl is back and still as tropey as ever! despite the very serious news article above and the occasional glimpses of drama, angst and/or heaviness, this fic will stay true to my ~brand and will be 90% sweet (sickeningly), hot (hopefully), and filled with a crap ton of puns (unfortunately). as for who to thank for the existence of this fic, you may direct it to queen carly rae jepsen and her albums - always a mood!
> 
> please feel free to bug me on tumblr @ pinkplanetaries!


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